


Quiet at the Kitchen Door

by Ludicrous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous
Summary: Mycroft has always considered his kitchen to be a solace. It is the receptacle of his best memories, after all. This time, however, something appears to be missing.This was written for the Mystrade Monday prompt "I just really miss talking to you"
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 18
Kudos: 95





	Quiet at the Kitchen Door

The first time Mycroft stepped into a kitchen, it was to make his brother a tomato soup. His mother had always forbidden him from the room - _don’t disturb the cook, dear._ But it was late at night, the cook was gone and Sherlock was complaining about a sore throat. It was what one might call an emergency; if one was ten and overly protective of one’s brother.

Mycroft had slipped into the kitchen and proceeded to make a preparation, which could only be called soup if you squinted and ignored the burnt smell. He had never been prouder.

Sherlock had eaten a whole bowl of it and had smiled like it was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted. Mycroft told him pirate tales until Sherlock dozed off. He fell asleep sitting next to Sherlock’s bed, one of Sherlock’s hands in his.

Mycroft’s feet are silent on the tiles. A lot has changed, in this house. The curtains have lost their colour; Mummy no longer forbids Mycroft from going into the kitchen and Sherlock ceased holding Mycroft’s hand when he’s scared.

Mycroft still drops everything and runs to help his brother, of course, although these days it takes more than soup for Sherlock to be alright. Some days, there is nothing more Mycroft can do than rush to his brother’s side and stay there - waiting with him, waiting until the urge has faded. Other days, Mycroft sits on the stairs; on the wrong side of the door - where Sherlock has exiled him.

Mycroft kept the kitchen just like it was, all these years ago. The consistency is a comfort, a safe port in the storm when everything else seems to shake and drown.

If he stays still long enough, the ghosts of youth come back to haunt him. There are gentle spectres; smelling of rosemary and honey, brushing away phantom tears on his cheeks. His other demons are less pleasant but for now, the kitchen keeps them at bay.

Mycroft used to spend a lot of time in here, recreating the pastries he relished as a child. These days, there is only one person he’d want to share his confections with. He doesn’t know how to ask.

The stove has accumulated dust; the entire room lost some of its glow - a museum of past memories. When Mycroft opens the window, the crisp air smells like snow. 

It is still dark out; the whole world asleep. It used to make Mycroft feel dynamic; now he mostly feels numb. He draws an arm around himself as if it could help him recollect the shape of himself. 

It is not enough.

An old-looking phone hangs on the wall. Mycroft moves closer to it, slowly, as if to not scare it away.

It’s a souvenir of sorts - of a time where one twirled the phone cord around one’s fingers as one talked, keeping your voice low in case one’s obnoxious little brother stood in the corridor outside.

Mycroft dials the number, his hands steady. There is no-one to spy on Mycroft this time, no-one to tell him what a spectacularly bad idea this is.

Two beeps, then a sleepy voice answers.

“Hullo?”

Mycroft is tempted to bask in the sound for a moment and then hang up. He has no reason to call Greg at this time of night - Sherlock is perfectly safe and sound and England has not yet fallen to ruins.

No, there is no logical reason why Mycroft listens with bated breath as on the other line, Greg yawns. The silence that follows is comforting instead of stifling.

“M’croft?”

Greg calls his name and instead of hanging up, Mycroft stays on the line. His hands are shaking around the receiver - a silent plea, like screaming underwater.

“Is that you?” Greg sounds more awake - Mycroft can almost picture him running a hand over his mouth, his jaw. “Sherlock alright?”

“Sherlock is- fine, Inspector.” A faint echo of his voice comes back to him through the receiver - distorted as if it travelled through water.

“And are you? Alright, that is.”

Mycroft exhales shakily. He has no idea what the answer to that question is. He knows what it should be - _perfectly well, thank you_ \- but he can’t muster up the strength to lie. Yet the truth feels just as unmentionable.

_I just really miss talking to you._

The words pile up on his tongue, tasting like ash.

Mycroft waits for so long without answering that he half expects Greg to have hung up. It’s what others would have done - they’d go back to sleep without a regret.

Greg’s breaths keep coming through the phone, deep and soothing. An anchor.

“Well, I have no idea if you’re even in the country but how ‘bout some breakfast? I’ll bring pastries if you provide us with some beverage. I’m sure you have some fancy-looking tea stashed somewhere.”

Mycroft lightly touches his lips - they are smiling. It is faint but does not fade.

“That could be arranged.” A pause - that same silence settling over them like a warm cover. “I’ll send a car.”

The light comes slowly over the lawn. Golden morning. Mycroft looks at his misused kitchen and smiles. He has some cleaning up to do - after all, a guest is arriving.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story!


End file.
